


Home

by opposablethumbs



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: M/M, POV Bucky Barnes, POV First Person, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-06
Updated: 2017-04-06
Packaged: 2018-10-15 19:54:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,025
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10556786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/opposablethumbs/pseuds/opposablethumbs
Summary: The Howling Commandos all get tattoos. Steve won't show his to anyone, at least not until he and Bucky are alone.





	1. Home

**Author's Note:**

> So this came in as a [prompt](https://micromarvel.tumblr.com/post/158888422144/prompt-steve-has-a-tattoo-or-tattoos-but-he-is) to Micromarvel, and it was going to be a microfic... until it wasn't. 
> 
> Beta'd by the ever-magnificent glowcloud, [nursedarry](http://archiveofourown.org/users/NurseDarry/pseuds/NurseDarry).
> 
> There is bonus art at the end.

It started, like so many of these stories, when Dum Dum was drunk. To be fair, all of the Howlies were drunk, with the obvious exceptions of Steve and myself.

“You know what we should do?” Dugan said, along with a belch.

“Drink more!” Falsworth cheered, raising his half-empty glass.

“Yes,” Dugan agreed, “but also get tattoos.”

Jacques leaned in to Gabe’s side, whispered something. Gabe answered, then Jacques turned back to the group

“Bon!” he said, slamming his tumbler down on the table.

I looked over to Steve, lifted my eyebrow.

“I’m not sure that’s a great idea,” Steve announced.

Morita snorted. “Look out everyone, Cap’s got his mom face on,” he said.

Steve did indeed have his mom face on. “I’m not trying to rain on anyone’s parade,” he said. “But we only have two more days R&R and then we’re back in the field. It’s going to be hard enough extracting Zola, without anyone getting sick behind enemy lines.”

“So tattoos are too dangerous, but zip-lining onto a speeding train; you’re good with that?” Gabe replied.

I watched Stevie wilt at that.

“No,” he said. “but that’s our job. This is just…”

He stared over at me, and I could see him pleading for back-up. I settled into my seat. I knew exactly where this was heading.

Steve took a deep breath. “Alright. You all want to get tattoos, who am I to stop you?”

Dugan drained his ale. “Nope,” he said, “not just us. _All_ of us. We all go, or none of us do.”

And there it was: the wall against Steve’s back.

His bright blue peepers peered at me, again seeking my assistance. This time, I smiled and shrugged; all helpful-like.

He dropped his head, chin all the way to his chest. “Fine,” he answered sullenly.

****

“So, what did you get Jimmy-boy?” Dugan asked, clapping a hand to Morita’s back.

Jim rolled back his cuff, showing off the newly-needled skin of his wrist. The word ‘Jenny’ was written in not-quite-black ink, surrounded by puffy pink skin.

“Nice,” Dugan admired. “That your girl’s name, in Fresno?”

Jim blushed. “My ma,” he said.

Dum Dum pounded the smaller man’s shoulder, laughing heartily.

One by one, we each showed off our tattoos. I’d never really considered getting one before, and it’d taken me a while to choose. In the end I’d settled on a five pointed star, filled in red, on the outside of my bicep. It reminded me of the star on Steve’s suit, yet it was very clearly not the same. It’s opposite, perhaps, if not quite its equal.

“Somethin’ for you to wish on?” Dugan asked me.

I smiled, risking a glance at Steve who had just emerged from the back room; uncharacteristically bringing up the rear. “Something like that,” I said.

“Cap,” Gabe called, spotting him. “You done?”

Steve nodded. He had a weird look about him, somehow pale and flushed at the same time. “Yep,” he said, nodding slightly.

Falsworth grinned that smug, British grin of his. How a grin could be British, I still don’t know, but Monty’s definitely was. “Get it out then, old chap,” he said.

Steve was definitely now on the side of flushed. “Umm…” he said. “It’s a bit personal.”

“You got it on your ass, Cap?” Dugan hooted.

“No!” Steve protested, but the flush on his face said something different.

“Inner thigh?” Morita suggested innocently.

Steve shook his head.

“By God,” Falsworth exclaimed. “Surely not on your John Thomas?”

Steve tipped his head, clearly puzzled.

“Dick,” Gabe translated.

Dugan barked out a laugh. “Good man. Might as well use it for something, eh?”

“What… No!” spluttered Steve. “Why would… _who_ would do that?”

I was as intrigued as the rest of them, but long conditioning had taught me to be wary of winding Steve up _too_ much. There was a critical point of embarrassment where he would either get punchy or have an asthma attack. Sure, the boffins had made him big and strong, but looking at him gasping and grasping for a reply, I really wished I had a paper bag handy.

“Hey,” I said, keeping my voice calm and level, “Cap doesn’t have to show us if he doesn’t want to. Right guys? What matters is he got it done.”

“I got it done,” Steve confirmed.

“Right then,” I said, giving him a crooked smile. “Now I say it’s time to get back to the barracks and hit they hay.”

For an answer, Falsworth began to sing. “ _Show me the way to go home…_ ”

****

The barracks were on Chelsea Bridge Road, an hour’s stumble through the blacked-out streets of London. It was past curfew but we had papers, and the guys had bellies full of beer to keep them warm. Steve and I brought up the rear, making sure no one fell by the wayside. The first couple of times his hand brushed mine, I assumed it was by accident. But as those touches came more often, I smiled to myself. Feeling bold, I reached out. Steve didn’t pull away. We walked almost the whole way hand in hand.

Back at the barracks, the guys went to their dormitory. As the squad officers, Steve and I had our own room; a luxury we seldom got. The aide had apologised to us even for that, there were no individual rooms free. _I’m very sorry, but you and the sergeant will have to share_ , he said. Like it was some kind of punishment.

Our temporary quarters were pretty spartan. There were two beds separated by a single table, two footlockers, and a desk with a bare chair. Steve went straight in. I made a stop via the bathroom. When I got to the room he was waiting, barefoot and tie tossed to one side. He stood between the two beds, his back turned partway to the door, and when he looked over his shoulder the modest duck of his head fooled neither of us. I nudged the door closed behind me, leaning on it with one leg bent and my foot flat against the wood.

I smiled at him as he studied me, eyes trailing up and down my body; like _I_ was the one who had changed so much.

“So,” I drawled, “You going to tell me where this tattoo is, then?”

Steve came a few steps closer, facing me. There was recklessness in his eyes, the same look he’d get back in Brooklyn when he faced off guys twice his size or told some punk just exactly what he thought of people who used ‘words like that’.

“Why don’t you find it?” he said, making it sound like a challenge.

I couldn’t keep the grin off my face as I pushed away from the wood. There were no locks on the door, but I figured no one would come knocking at this time of night. I stalked up to Steve, and laid my fingers against the buckle of his belt. “Yeah?” I asked.

Steve licked his lips. “Yeah,” he replied.

I unfastened his buckle and pulled the belt free of his pants, tossing it onto the bed behind us. I popped the top button, my eyes fixed on his, and lowered his zipper. His skin was so warm. Back before whatever they did to him, Steve was always a little bit cold. He just didn’t have any fat over his bones to keep him warm. There was no fat now, either, but smooth, solid muscle that trembled only slightly under my touch. I let his trousers flap open, revealing the lines of his stomach funneling down to his navel. Taking deliberate care, I examined what I could see so far, stooping so my breath disturbed the fine hairs that dipped below the line of his underwear.

“Hmm,” I said. “Nothing _there_.”

I pushed the trousers over his narrow hips and he stepped out of them. I stared at his legs. They were so thick, muscles defined in contours that begged me to run my palms over them. Even before he got big, I found Steve’s form endlessly fascinating; now it was made new, I had so much to relearn. I got down on my haunches and studied each of his thighs in detail, first the outside and then nudging his ankles apart to give me access to the more intimate skin. I heard him gasp, catching something that sounded like my name in his throat.

“Yeah, not here either,” I announced.

Staying crouched, I guided him ‘round so he was facing away from me. Admittedly, there were some changes to Steve’s physique I appreciated more than others; and the one in front of me in that moment was a particular favourite.

I plucked at the hem of his shirt and he complied to my unspoken request, rucking his shirt up past his hips. I swear he was still wearing the same size underwear as he ever had, and they stretched and pulled over his backside quite obscenely. I felt my mouth go dry. Hooking my thumbs into the waistband, I eased them down so his pure, pale ass was revealed. They were so damned tight, the front stayed in place. I couldn’t help myself any longer: I leaned in and pressed a kiss to each buttock in turn.

“...uck,” Steve groaned quietly at the press of my lips.

“Was that ‘Fuck’ or ‘Buck’?” I asked, grinning to myself.

“Either,” Steve whimpered. “Both.”

While I was thoroughly enjoying this game, I was starting to run out of places to check for the damn tattoo. I couldn’t believe Monty might be right, but I’d long since stopped being too surprised by anything Steve did.

I got to my feet and circled once more to Steve’s front. He stood there and let me take him in. His skin was mottled pink from cheek to neck, disappearing beneath the collar of his shirt. His feet were planted at shoulder width apart and his knees held loose. One part of him, however, was quite evidently not ‘at ease’. I traced the hard line of him through his underwear, feeling the heat radiate through the cotton. Then I guided him free of his final constraint.

I stepped back.

“Huh,” I said.

There was nothing there. Well, obviously there was _something_ there. A whole lot of something, to be fair. Just, not what I was expecting.

“You really didn’t get one?” I asked. Even though it hadn’t been my idea, I felt a little betrayed that Steve might not have done what he agreed to.

“Buck,” said Steve, gently chastising. “Of course I did.”

I frowned and ran my eyes over him again, as though a cursory glance might reveal something my more thorough search had failed to turn up.

“Nope. Not seeing it,” I said.

“You’ve not checked everywhere,” Steve offered. He stretched his neck, giving me a glimpse of his collarbone as his shirt gaped slightly.

I pulled my face at him. “You said it was somewhere private.”

Steve shook his head. “No,” he corrected, “I said it was _personal_.”

I let out a little growl. “I’ll show you personal,” I said.

We kissed. The first time we did that after Austria, behind the thin curtain of a medical cubicle, I’d found it strange not to have to tip my head so he could find my mouth. But the taste, the feel of him once he was there, was the same as ever. Just like it was now. True there was the lingering tang of warm British beer on his tongue, but it was subtle and not unpleasant. I pressed myself against him, aware of the drag of my trousers against his bare skin, and walked him backwards to the bed. He pulled me down with him as we found our target, angling himself so I could clamber over him. I sat back on his thighs, my legs either side of his. I fingered the buttons of his shirt.

“I suppose I could take a peek under this.”

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” Steve replied.

I laughed and pulled my shirt up over my head, throwing it into the corner of the room. “Deal.”

He reached up for me and ran his hands over my chest, the pads of his fingers teasing my nipples and stroking them hard. He smiled at my reaction, his expression softly bemused, like he still didn’t believe I would want him to touch me this way.

“All for you, Stevie,” I reassured. “Only for you.”

One by one, I slipped his shirt buttons through their holes, laying his shirt open. His chest was bare; no ink anywhere. But I still returned the favour he’d paid me, leaning in and taking his left nipple in my mouth. I sucked it, salving it with my tongue and grazing the peak with my teeth.

“Goddam, your mouth,” Steve swore.

I pulled back. “You want me to stop?” I asked, giving him a wry smile.

“Never,” he replied, and it sounded even more like an oath than the first.

I held myself up on my hands, our faces level. “I thought you were showing me this tattoo of yours?”

Steve craned up and kissed me. “Afterwards,” he promised.

****

Dawn was just starting to creep into the room as we lay together in the fuzzy ‘afterwards’. Steve was turned on his side, with his face buried in against my neck; kissing it lazily and without much purpose.

“God, I miss this, Stevie,” I muttered into this hair.

The war didn’t give us much opportunity to be like this. Back in Brooklyn, we at least had our own front door to close behind us. There was very little privacy in the field, and we’d come close to being discovered on more than one occasion.

He pulled back, his eyes focusing on my face and tracking over my features. “The fighting won’t last forever,” he assured.

“And then we can go home,” I replied.

A soft smile spread like the morning light over Steve’s face. I watched him, dazzled as ever by the brightness he brought to my life.

“You ready to see it?” he asked.

I frowned, puzzled, trying to unpick his meaning. “The tattoo?” I guessed at last.

For an answer, Steve held me closer, arms circling me and his chest half covering mine. Not one to say no to a cuddle with my best guy, I brought my own arm up over him, feeling the flow of muscles in his back. My other hand went to his hair, running through the damp strands. I closed my eyes and breathed him in. He smelled like smoke from the pub, soot from the streets and sweat from what we’d just done. It was kind of perfect. But I was also curious.

I opened my eyes; turned my head to ask the question. And that’s when I saw it. A single word in black script, not two inches wide and three quarters of an inch high, curving around the angle of his shoulder blade. Even upside-down I could read it: It simply said _‘home’_.

“I don’t get it,” I said. I could’ve understood if it had read Brooklyn, or New York. Even ‘America’ might have made sense, but my Stevie would never have been comfortable taking that name for himself. I knew he barely tolerated it when the paper’s called him Captain America, accepting it only for the good of morale.

I felt Steve take a deep breath. He spoke quietly. “It’s the first place you ever kissed me, Buck,” he said. “And you’ll always be home to me.”

The air caught in my throat. I’ve never been a particularly emotional guy, but my eyes stung at his words. I remembered that night, stupid and drunk, not long after we’d moved into the apartment together. We didn’t even have the curtains up yet. Steve had looked so perfect in the moonlight, flushed and plucky and still spoiling for the fight I had dragged him out of.

_I coulda had him, Buck,_ he’d said, turning his back on me to unbutton his shirt.

_You could have anyone you want,_ I’d replied, like the dumb sap I have always been for him. He’d turned his head and looked back at me, his shirt hanging off his shoulders. Something inside me - quite possible the beer - told me to do it, to kiss that pale and freckled skin. And when he leaned back against me, I knew he knew what it meant.

The memories hit me hard. That first kiss. Crawling into bed beside him. Holding him in the moonlight and on into the darkness, never wanting the night to end.

“Fuck, Steve,” I said, trying to sniff the tears away and failing.

He kissed my neck once more, warm and safe and familiar.

 

It would be seventy-two years before I made it home again.

 

 


	2. Home again

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After more than seven decades, Bucky comes home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beta'd by the bright as a button [whatthefoucault](http://archiveofourown.org/users/whatthefoucault), so that Darry could have a surprise for once.

Seventy-two years was too long to have waited for this.

“You’re sure?” Steve said, his eyebrows knitted together. “You’re ready?”

“Yes.” I replied.

After the horrors I made with my hands, I wasn’t sure there’d ever be a perfect time. But I didn’t need it to be perfect. This was Steve.

He stripped me slowly, reverentially, kissing skin that hadn’t been touched with kindness in decades. His lips lingered where my flesh met metal.

“I’ll show you mine if you show me yours,” I whispered.

“Deal,” he replied, stepping back to pull his shirt over his head.

I put my hands on his body. He didn’t even flinch at the difference between them. There was the scar from when they drained his lung in ‘33. My eyes blurred as I traced the pink starburst on his navel, knowing how that had gotten there too.

“Turn around,” I said.

A half-smile graced Steve’s lips as he complied, his broad back coming into view.

“It’s faded,” he said, catching my eye over his shoulder.

I pressed my lips to the grey-green lettering of Steve’s aged tattoo, kissing the same spot as I had the very first time.

It would always be home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've also cross-posted this part to my Tumblr ([micromarvel](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/micromarvel)), because it's an honest-to-goodness drouble. Please come say hi, it'd mean the world to me!


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